


and you'll never leave me

by opheliavevo (javajoy)



Series: her perfume stains your hands [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/javajoy/pseuds/opheliavevo
Summary: But Villanelle is still holding her hand, rubbing in repetitive motions that inspires a distraction. Eve longs to empty her head, to lose herself in the feeling. Of the work of her assassin's hands.But the wrong perfume lingers between them.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: her perfume stains your hands [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772851
Kudos: 39





	and you'll never leave me

It stains Eve's hands, coating her flesh in a crimson constellation.

Splatterings of blood, a new signature of her crimes; finally marking her now after all this time. A black growth on her soul, located next to all the other black growths.

_He's dead_ The thought echoes in her mind, racing across the threshold of her being. Screaming in her veins and following her lungs. Denial evaded her, fleeing from her core and outside of her body. Slithering down the hallway. 

A biblical manifestation of her sin, abandoning Eve as the weight bares onto her. Her sanctuary of delusion isolating her as well.

Horrifically, her world doesn't change. She stands paralyzed as foolish and outdated expectations hold their judgment against her. A part of Eve that indulged the illusion of her life as an average, good-intentioned samaritan expected an act as violent and aggressive as murder to have shattered her.

Eve should have collapsed onto the ground as her screams fill the void. Ripping from her throat as grief and regret rage within her. Her body only being able to move due to the adrenaline running in her system. 

On the opposite end, a deep fear that she had buried in the darkest areas of her mind - shielding them away as though the act could protect her from their potential truth - whispered wicked suggestions.

That she should feel _alive_. Eve has been in the process of waking up for some time now. The previous days have seen the first time in her life that she's truly been _awake_ ; and _this_ moment should have served as her entrance into a new existence.

A cold smile should have pulled at her lips, a sick fascination that Eve has followed and she has chased after should have left her body as laughter. Eve should be holding herself with a new sense of pride. No longer studying under femme fatales but performing as one.

Neither responses find her, because neither her recoiling nor embracing the act were sensible.

The logical reaction that should have led Eve the moment she buried an ax into the back of a now deadman would have been to cover her tracks. All the work she had done with MI6, decades of her life investigating murder scenes and hours spent listening to murder mystery podcasts.

Eve should be dropping to her knees and cutting at the man's fingertips. Prying the teeth from his mouth, slicing and defiguring his face to the point of unreliability. Seeking out any point of potential CCTV before discarding the murder weapon and fleeing the scene.

She should be reaching out to Carolyn, begging forgiveness before inquiring for any additional matters or concerns that Eve had at spontaneous murder - preventing an _assassin_ from dying likely wouldn't win her any self-defense argument - but _this_ reaction that is waiting for her is just outside of her body, evading her as,

It's indifference.

A cold chill that swirls around her as even her acceptance of the truth becomes illogical. The world should have turned gray, and there are many reactions that should be controlling Eve but there are none. The scene remains the same, Eve can't even claim to be shattered when she's only cracked.

A vengeful shock that creeps up on her, caressing her face, unbuttoning her vest. Whispering praise and sweet words in her ear. _No_ , that wasn't shock, because

All those months ago, when she buried that knife into her assassin. Reality washed over her slowly, cruelly. A steady stream that flowed until its presence was too great to ignore. _This_ was like drowning. There was no hesitation of the truth nor was there any anticipation of escape. There is only the fresh smell of blood, the lack of air, the lack of strength; but

There was _her_. 

Villanelle slips the vest off of Eve's body, softly running her hands over the fabric of her green turtleneck sweater. Clutching her hands on Eve's forearm as she's no choice but to cling back.

Her skin is soft where their cheeks brush, Villianelles breathing tickles her neck, ruffling her hair as delighted gasps continue to fall from the assassin. She turns her head to further bury her face into Eve's hair but resistance pulls at their flesh. The blood that stains their skin sticks together.

Ripping apart with a breathy giggle from Villanelle. There is oxygen that flows between them even if the element refuses to fill her lungs. The sensation that _does_ find Eve is the smell of Villianelle's perfume.

Rich with too light of air, an aroma that announces a belonging to luxury. Likely a gift that was meant for a false woman named Billie. The scent was unbefitting of Villanelle, but at this moment is belonged to her, so Eve clings to that as well.

She falls forward into the other woman, Villanelle is happy to hold her upright as her breath continues to brush Eve's hair. Pressing their bodies together, Eve then clings to the sound of her breathing. The feeling of its warm presence against her neck, the memory of the prior night.

When the melody of Villianelles breathing and elicit words had brought her to her peak. Breaking open a dam of long overdue pleasure while her body was joined with another.

It's a flame that traces across her skin as the memory takes hold of her. Twisting her core, allowing Eve something within herself to latch onto. Grounding herself as a sick ache builds within her. 

A _want_ washing over her even with the presence of a corpse just beside her.

Villanelle still holds onto her, whispering nonsense. Eve can feel her smile which she attempts to conceal in a mess of dark curls. Her assassin's response is too much for her to handle, so Eve squeezes her eyes shut, and runs her fingers over the smooth red fabric of Villianelles attire.

But then she moves, Eve clutches at the air as Villanelle slithers around her body. Latching her arms around her form as she forces Eve to take a step forward.

There's laughter that Villianelles attempts to conceal, looking back at the body even as they descend the staircase.

\--

It's a play that Eve is hyperaware of. Located in a grand theatre, with impeccable actors that lead each scene with grace and gravitas. 

Yet Eve is an actress who has forgotten her lines, who has never seen the set before opening night. Stumbling through the streets. Watching herself perform an act outside of her own body. 

Villanelle is the lead that wandered into a spotlight that used to belong to herself. Navigating the area with ease and understanding. Her hand snakes down Eve's arm, onto her hand. Interlocking their fingers together as she continues bringing her deeper into the scene.

Forcing the narrative to include them both, for an invisible audience to follow them as they escape a plot twist.

But Villanelle's hand is _real_ , soft and gentle, with long fingers that rub wicked circles on the back of her hand. Their hips bump into the others, occasionally Villianelles will reach for her, her face, her _hair_.

Regarding her with a look of wonder and awe.

Sometimes the feeling overtakes her. Their bodies press together, their lips close together but failing to touch. There's safety in the distance between that kiss. Just as there is sanity outside of the others touch.

There is still blood that coats her skin, and her skin as well. Matching makeup that will stick their flesh together as the wrong perfume drowns them in its scent.

They can't drown, not yet. The moment is wrong, her body belongs to everyone but herself. There is danger and regret and rationality that exists just beyond her reach,

But Villanelle is still holding her hand, rubbing in repetitive motions that inspires a distraction. Eve longs to empty her head, and to lose herself in the feeling. Of the work of her assassin's hands.

But the wrong perfume lingers between them.

And they keep walking forward, even as underlining tensions pursue their exit.

\--

Eve almost begs for it as the enter a secluded hallway. Safety and self-preservation be damned.

She needs Villianelle to slam her back against the nearest wall, to hold her in those lost eyes and devilish grin as she hitches up her green jumper. Exposing the flesh of her stomach, ghosting her touch over the area as Villanelle slips her fingers beneath the waistband of Eve's trousers.

She wouldn't have to be gentle, she could slip her fingers inside as her lips ravished her neck. Eve doesn't _want_ Villianelle to be gentle. She longs for the pain just as she longs for the release. She needs the sensation, needs it to ground herself.

Rather than be abolished of her crimes, Eve wants Villianelle to baptize her in sin. She wants forgiving lips to part at her request with gentle touches as she comes apart on unforgiving -understanding - fingers.

The words are in her throat, waiting for her to vocalize them. Eve knows her request wouldn't be denied, but what a terrible thing to ask for. Yearning for sexual release when she's just killed a man.

Eve's voice remains quiet, Villanelle continues rubbing soft circles on the back of her hand.

\--

She can almost accept what she's done. She can almost justify the action enough to beg Villanelle. 

The water which drowns her is draining, the sun has almost found it's way to her. Villanelle won't hide her joy. Her hand slips away, and she's talking of a future, a life in Alaska.

Eve misses America, despite the faults. The devoted, godless country with glamorized demons.

Countless cults and delusional women in love with heartless killers.

\--

She'd like to see Alaska, perhaps salvation awaits them there. They've both escaped redemptions mercy. Life continued even as the world around her ended. The sun has almost found Eve as she reaches out to the light.

\--

A cloud moves in front of the sun before her fingers make it. A cold Italian day that mocks her desire for warmth.

\--

There's a cat walking along a fallen column, a flock of birds takes off into the air. Villanelle aims a short pistol in their line of flight. Her assassin clicks the safety off and rocks the gun in mocking motions at the fleeing animals.

\--

Now Eve is shattered, and delusion greets her once again. 

Her assassin, bathed in red only spares her a questioning glance as she continues planning an impossible future.

There's still an ache in Eve's core as her heart shatters. As salvation and release deny her their presence.

\--

Eve drowns her want with repulsion, allows her rage to mask itself as strength. Time stands still as moments speed past her. The words are slurred and their footing stumbled. The play has ended, and their story continues.

Unscripted and raw, improve unwanted by the actors spouting new lines. Villanelle wanted her broken, just as Eve wanted the illusion of choice.

Now they were both left yearning after a different outcome where they belonged.

\--

"I love you."

"No."

"I do."

\--

" _You're mine_."

\--

Even as she steps into the darkness, Eve knows what she wants,

But Eve never gets what she wants.

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe


End file.
